Standing mid-stream in the river’s caresses,
all is washed clean in sky’s solvent of dawn.
I sat down last night to converse with the Great One
who spread the sky table with a fresh cloth of stars.
The soothing serenity of the evening campfire
prompted communion no words can convey.
Those in love with the fragrance of midnight
may still trade the moon for a morning bouquet,
but before any preference can ripple the mind pond
the monk and nun peacocks will gather and pray.
When they open their mouths and cry out to heaven,
the night will fly off on the light wings of day.
Before time began all the people lay slumbering,
curled up in glass caskets in trance-like display.
Then we rose at first daybreak like lovers of light,
donned our sky clothes and set off on our way.